Hibernation happens when the body cools down. The higher temperature becomes, the more the particles move around. But when they stop, there is no heat. There is no energy given off. And things sleep.
Hibernating, that's what this is. Potential energy seeps out of everything, because even though you can't see it, you can feel it, the slow, relaxed breathing induced by sleep.
"This is the Red Line to Glenmont station; train boarding on your right" says the faceless man to the woman in black. She doesn't hear him; she simply steps through the open door, as if she were walking from room to room.
The comatose lifts, as if woken by the whistle of the slow breathing against the moving train. She opens her paper, eyes lighting from subject to subject. Men, women, police men, children, dead or alive in black print. They dance and talk ethics, they dance and talk politics, they dance and talk religion, to the sound of rumbling train wheels, bump bump bump, whiiiiiiiir.
"Now approaching Metro Center, this is a transfer stop for the Orange and Blue Lines. Doors open on your right, thank you for riding Metro Rail, have a nice day." The nameless man says, his voice crackling in the old speakers.
The woman stands, shaken into alertness, her eyes seeing nothing but light in the dark tunnels, deep underground.
"Excuse me" she says as she bumps into a man, who is hurrying the other way, feeding the crowd flowing in and out, like blood in vessels to the brain. He flashes a smile to say no harm is done and hurries, already gone in presence and thought.
She walks, they walk, we walk into buildings, down the streets, laughing, waiting, crying, alive, alive in the sleeping city, alive for the paradox of cities and nature.
Tomorrow she will stand in the cold, not seeing her breath, newspaper tucked in her armpit, maybe with a cup of coffee. "This is the Red Line to Glenmont Station. Doors opening on the right."
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